5 Times Nat Set Steve up on a Date and the 1 Time He did it Himself
by iridescenceoflove
Summary: Steve Rogers makes her job so much harder.


**Quite certain this kinda thing has been done before, but still hope you all enjoy this.**

* * *

1.

"Nat, I really don't want to do this."

"So? You've already said that, and you're still doing it anyways."

Steve sighed, before shrugging into his brown leather jacket. She was right, and he had absolutely no idea why he'd even agreed to this. Honestly, he had no idea why he _still _was even doing it. He really could've put his foot down and said no, it wasn't like she would kill him over it.

No, she'd just continuously nag him.

Natasha was like a bulldog with a bone, incessant as ever, when she got something in her mind. He admired her determination and stubborn will, especially on missions. But as far as his dating life went?

No, he absolutely disliked her force of coercion and persuasion.

He also disliked it because he was the one who was convinced by it. Which was why he was dragging his feet about having to go out on her pre-planned date with Eliza from Statistics. Natasha had told him what to wear and where he was going, along with offering to drive and pick him up as a sort of compromise and peace offering.

"C'mon, Rogers, work with me here. It's not like I'm setting you up with Stark," she said, smirking at him as she grabbed her keys off his counter. "Unless you'd prefer that."

"No thanks," he replied dryly, heading to turn the knob on his door.

"Then quit complaining and enjoy the free ride."

—

"So how was it?"

He buckled in as she started to pull out of the parking lot of Red Hen.

"It went fine. You picked out a nice restaurant."

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and she made a turn. "That's all you have to say?"

"Did you know that forty-eight million people suffer food poisoning, one hundred twenty-eight thousand of them are hospitalized, and three thousand die, according to CDC statistics?"

"What the h—Rogers, I need to know that why?"

"Because it was a fact I thought I should share with you. Eliza told me about it," he informed her.

She made a slight incline with her head. "Okay, maybe that was her way of starting small talk. Put out some...fun facts."

"Yeah, I thought that at first, but it turns out, she's in Statistics for a reason. She named theories and possibilities of rat droppings in dishes, and the chances of hair in the soups there. Along with other things."

Well, Eliza was a fucking weirdo. "If she dissed my choice of restaurant, I want her to know that it is a highly rated place, and serves delicious Gnocchi."

He chuckled and shifted in his seat, which she had to admit, was a little small for his big frame. "I know, I had it. And Eliza went on about the dangers of food poisoning through milk."

She sighed as she stopped at a red light and looked over to him. "Guess it's back to the drawing board."

He made sure not to sound too relieved. "Yup."

"I'm grabbing a milkshake, you want one?"

"Vanilla, please."

•••••••

2.

"Okay, I've talked with Beth before, and she's funny and enjoys old time movies. She should work out fine."

"We'll find out," he said, putting on his shoes.

—

"It's not going to work out."

She had to fight a groan. She was going to try and hear him out first, then gauge if she needed to smack him. "And why not?"

He sighed, and it seemed a little dramatic, in her opinion. "I don't think she liked me."

Her eyebrows raise a fraction, and she turned to face him fully. "And why do you think she didn't like you?"

He looked a little sheepish, avoiding her gaze for a few seconds. "I might have corrected her about inaccuracies within the movie a couple of times. Just a couple."

Then she groaned, slumping back to face her steering wheel. "Steve…"

"To be fair, I don't blame her for not knowing about them."

"Oh no, don't you dare try to weasel your way out of this. Why would you correct her? It's an old love story, for God's sake!" she exclaimed.

He became defensive. "It still had inaccuracies."

She gave him her patented withering look. "You've watched movies with me before that were way more inaccurate, and you've enjoyed them. And you're a gentleman, you never interrupt during movies to correct things. Stark does."

He harrumphed and turned his head towards his window. "Well, this one was really inaccurate."

She rolled her eyes and finally started the car. "You're a terrible liar, Rogers." She shook her head. "Fine, we'll just have to watch a really shitty movie tonight so you can show me how rude you can be."

•••••••

3.

"Oh for Christ's sake, what's wrong this time?"

He looked offended. "Who said anything was wrong?"

She gave him a pointed look. "It's written all over your face."

He frowned as he opened the passenger door, stooping low to climb in. "You can't know that just by my face."

"Trust me, I can," she said. "So why didn't it work?"

He decided not to argue about his tell-tale signs anymore, and went ahead and told her the truth. "She's really nice, and talkative."

She gestured impatiently for him to go on. "But…"

"She just isn't my type."

She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Not your type? Is this because she used to have the lip piercing?"

"Which she exchanged for a more blingy tongue piercing."

"Hmm. Sure would make oral hell of a—"

He blushed and put up his hand to stop her. "Geezus, Nat!"

She shrugged, nonchalant. "So what, you told her you couldn't date her because she had a tongue piercing?"

"No, and I can't believe you'd assume I'd be so rude as to do that," he said, with a slight pout that she found secretly adorable. "She gave me the feeling that she'd rather not go out again with the guy who got her banned from her favorite bowling alley."

She gave him an exasperated look that made him feel like he was being chastised by his mother. "How the hell did you get banned from a bowling alley?" she yelled.

He rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace. "I may have miscalculated my strength and destroyed one of the lanes. Or two."

Her head thudded against her steering wheel, which released a beep. "Miscalculated? Seriously, Steve, you expect me to believe that?"

"Hey, it can happen!"

She groaned before lifting her head up. "Fine. As a punishment, you're paying for dinner tonight."

He tried not to smile, he really didn't want to irritate her further. "That's fine. Their hot wings were awful."

•••••••

4.

"I swear to God, Rogers—"

"Before you start, it wasn't me. She had to leave early because of a patient."

Her face said she clearly didn't believe him. "Steve, she's a children's cardiologist, not a cardiac surgeon."

"Yeah, I figured she lied."

She made the turn to head to his apartment. "Which I'm sure you caused."

He was more forward this time, nodding thoughtfully. "I'll admit, my talk about old war times probably seemed a little repetitive after a bit."

"Of course it was! And now Pepper will be pissed too, because she took the time to get Kate's information for me."

"Sorry, Nat."

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "You can apologize by cooking me pancakes."

He grinned, "Chocolate chips, or blueberries?"

•••••••

5.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Natasha rolled down her window, getting a better glimpse of Steve Rogers in all his glory.

He had what she guessed was red wine all over his nicely pressed white shirt that she had forced him into earlier that evening, and he also probably had some on his pants, but the black hid it well. His hair was obviously damp, the hair on the left side flopping slightly onto his forehead. He looked pretty damn cute, in all honesty. But he didn't deserve compliments at that moment.

He had the decency to look incredibly abashed and apologetic as he came closer to the door. "Hi."

"Hi. Would you like to please explain to me why you look like a drowned rat." A very hot drowned rat, considering the way the damp shirt was plastered against his chiseled abs, basically transparent. She remembered exactly why she chose that shirt for him in the first place.

"Well, I can tell you what happened, but not exactly why…"

She felt her patience slipping, because seriously, how many dates could this man fuck up? "Steve, you are seriously the most impossible man to deal with."

He winced and sighed at that, before asking her if she had a towel or something, so he wouldn't make a mess in her car.

She got out of her car and went to the back of her trunk, pulling out a black bag. "Here, your spare change of clothes."

"Thank you," he said sincerely, unbuttoning his shirt.

He never seemed to know the effect he had on other people, because he was stripping off his shirt and didn't realize the hostess inside the restaurant trip and drop her menus while trying to lead a family to a table. Even an old man man raised his eyes behind his glasses in appraisal.

"You better at least have a good lie for me this time," she warned him, sliding into her seat.

He put up his hands in surrender, or in defense. A bit of both, really "I swear, Nat, I seriously don't understand what happened."

She scrutinized him carefully. "Okay. Tell me what happened before you were dumped with wine," she rolled her eyes.

"We were talking about our jobs, and I'm pretty sure your name came up—"

"My name?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "So I was talking about our partnership and the next thing I know, she's pouring her glass over my head."

"Huh."

"Yeah," he said as he ran his fingers through his stiffening and sticky hair, making it spike up in little tufts. "It's actually a shame too. I really liked her."

She didn't know why that made her feel weird. She was starting to feel glad that the woman had ended their date early, which simultaneously made her feel bad. She was supposed to be helping Steve find a girl, not being relieved over a failed date.

"I'll grab some takeout. I'm sure you're still hungry," she told him.

•••••••

\+ 1.

"Hey, Nat."

She turned and threw him a smile. "Steve. You sure look pleased. I'm guessing you got the news of an early day off?"

He nodded, moving to pour himself his own cup of fresh coffee too. "Yup, must be a fairly quiet day."

She moved to pour her sugars and dash of cream. "Well, since we both get a reprieve of our duties for the evening," she stirred, "do you want to try out that new Chinese place for dinner? Plus, I believe Netflix just released a new slew of movies," she added, throwing the plastic spoon away.

"Oh, I would if I could...but I have a date tonight," he said, with pride.

Thankfully, his back was towards her as she burnt her tongue with her coffee, muttering a curse.

"What?" Steve asked her, putting the creamer back into the mini fridge.

"Nothing," she recovered easily. "So, who's the poor gal?"

He didn't even try to argue with her small jab at him. "Lana, in Ballistics," he grinned.

She remembered her. Brunette, brown eyes, tall, super sweet and bubbly. Short for; opposite of her. She didn't know if it was possible to feel nauseous after a tiny sip of coffee. "She's nice."

He turned around to face her, mug prepared to his liking. "You shouldn't seem so shocked, Nat, I think after all this time and tips from you, I should be able to score a date for myself.  
You should be proud," he motioned to her with his cup before taking a sip.

She smiled, and she hated that it was the kind that she reserved for undercover missions. It wasn't an honest smile. "You're right. I'm glad you were able to do it all by yourself, Rogers. Without my help. I better go."

He gave her a confused look and dipped his head towards her mug, saying, "You've hardly drank any of your coffee."

She went for a casual shrug, making her way out of the break room. "I should probably go finish up any leftover paperwork. I'll see you later, Rogers. Enjoy your date."

He clearly accepted what she said and nodded. "Thanks, Nat."

But he was curious about one thing.

Since when did she ever voluntarily finish up paperwork?

—

Natasha was having a shitty ass week.

After getting her early day off, along with the news that Steve Rogers had finally procured a date all by himself, she went home and watched Netflix movies with her cat and a bottle of vodka. She knew it was pathetic, and that was another reason why she was also so mad at herself. So, in a sort of self-punishment and what she really didn't want to call depression, she took a mission from Fury all the way up in Iceland.

That didn't work out so well either, because it turned out that somehow, the Iceland Idiots knew somebody was coming for them, and they prepared themselves. She still beat them.

They prepared themselves, just not for the Black Widow.

There was a reason she called them the Iceland Idiots.

So she went back with a cut above one eye, a black eye for the other, a bruised rib, and a pounding headache, but a successful mission.

Okay, so maybe she had gotten a minor concussion.

But she took all the doctor's orders like a good girl, went home, still maybe sorta depressed. Maybe. And if so, only a little.

She was still mad at herself, not only for the same reason before she had gone, but also because she knew that she hadn't performed her best on her mission. Granted, they were all burly Icelandic dudes, looked a bit like they could be Thor's lost cousins—who weren't gods—and were all pretty tall. But she'd dealt with worse, and she knew how she worked. She knew that Steve and his stupid date got inside her head and made her act just a little too foolish for her preference on a damn mission.

Which combined all together, made her furious.

And forget what she'd said about following all of doctor's orders, because she'd spent the weekend punching bags and getting nearly drunk, even though she wasn't supposed to be drinking (or punching bags). At that point, she was just supremely mad at herself and her behavior.

And, she maybe had also ignored Steve's calls. Which was another foolish and irrational thing for her to do—blah blah blah—and now she felt crappy as a friend. She'd turned her phone off of course during the mission, which probably made him worried in that friendly concerning manner that he did about his friends, since she at least normally told him when she had missions.

Her thoughts were confirmed, when the spare phone she kept in her nightstand drawer was loaded with a few messages and phone calls.

_Hey, Nat, I called and texted your other phone a couple of times. I figure you might be busy, or maybe chucked your phone again and broke it? Text me when you can. _

_Hey, I get it if you're busy, but I haven't heard from you and...I don't know. Just let me know what's going on. _

_Look, you can tease me all you want about being desperate and worried like a grandmother, but nobody is telling me where you're at. I think I have every reason to be worried now. _

_Nat, I don't know if you're going through something, or if I've done something wrong, but please, at least answer me. All you have to do is send one of your awful emojis. That's all I need _

After reading those, she felt even worse. And the worse she felt about things, the more she pushed it aside and slid deeper away.

But she wondered if Steve ended up just being pissed instead for the rest of week, because after that last call on Thursday, he didn't do anymore. She told herself that that should make her feel better, and give her enough energy and umph to face him like the confident woman she normally was. But it didn't. She was still in her apartment, semi-sulking/brooding with classical music playing in the background.

All of her musings and thoughts went into the corner of her brain when she heard the knock on her door.

She was going to throw a cat toy at Clint. He'd already talked her ear off about facing her shit, biting the bullet, and being honest with Steve. Then had the nerve to ask if he could eat all of her grapes! She didn't need him chewing her ass out again, she already knew how to do that to herself. He was just like the more annoying version of her.

"Clint, I swear, I will throw this mouse at you if you think—"

And there was the source of her problems, right in front of door, looking all handsome and fucking perfect as ever. Shit.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not Clint."

She was going to admit it, she really didn't want to deal with her problems. Especially then. Not when her hair was in a messy bun on the top of her head, she was wearing old jogger sweats and a faded t-shirt, while holding an old mouse toy in her hand. "Do you wanna come in?"

He seemed relieved at first, but then hesitated, before finally stepping in.

She knew she had to offer up something. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thanks I—geez, Nat!"

Her black eye and cut probably looked a bit worse than what they really were once she got under kitchen light. "It's all superficial. Not that bad." But she sure as hell wouldn't tell him about her slight concussion or faintly bruised ribs.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, fighting off the urge to grab her face and scrutinize her injuries more closely. "Still, Nat."

"It was a mission. They were prepared, but they have hell of a lot more gifts from me than they delivered."

"Of course they do," he agreed offhandedly, before continuing. "And you mean the mission that I had to find out about from a half-naked Clint on your couch."

"I—wait. Why were you guys here? And why the hell was Clint half-naked?" Clint being half-naked in her apartment really wasn't exactly a huge perplexity. With Steve, now that was odd.

He looked away, slightly embarrassed for a second. "I used your spare key to get in and make sure you weren't—" he shrugged and gestured to her, "—dead, or something. But I found Clint in his boxers, watching TV with a tub of ice cream."

She nodded to the side. "That...makes more sense."

He shook his head before moving on. "That's not the point. You could've at least let me know you hadn't gotten kidnapped. For all I knew, you could've been off in the Bahamas."

She felt defensive, because he also couldn't come marching into her apartment playing the whole caring friend act. And how easy was it for her to get kidnapped? Honestly. "It's not my job to let you know what I'm up to twenty-four seven, Rogers. I don't need a babysitter."

"I know that. You're the last person who needs to be babysat, Natasha. But you can't get mad at me for being a bit worried, especially when the last time I talk to you is when you're telling me you're going to go finish up paperwork. Since when do you willingly—"

"Hey!"

"And then you basically go off the grid for the whole week.

She knew Steve already had a thing about being kept out of the loop about things. This would've bugged him if it had been about any other team member unaccounted for, she was sure. She sighed. "I'm sorry for not telling you about my mission."

He scrubbed his face with his hand and exhaled, shifting his weight between his feet. "No, listen, I...I didn't come here to chastise you for doing your job, Nat." He shook his head. "Honestly, this isn't going how I initially planned it."

She furrowed her brows in confusion, crossing her arms. "Planned what?"

"I came to apologize for being such a blind idiot."

Her eyebrows went high at that. She took apologizes when she believed they were due, but he was confusing her. "And when were you a blind idiot?"

"The past few weeks. Months, probably. Actually. I knew I wasn't really good at this, but I—well, I just didn't...God, I'm awful at this," he laughed with self-deprecation.

She was confused as all get out then. "I honestly don't know what's going on…"

He huffed, squaring his shoulder, facing her completely. "While Clint also helped divulge your whereabouts, he also lectured me on my obliviousness and went on to explain why I was getting the silent treatment for a whole week."

Clint. That little food stealing bastard. Oh, she most definitely was going to kill him. She was going to stuff that toy mouse so far up his asshole that his spine would break and he'd be seeing stars all the way—

"Nat."

"Hmm?"

"Quit thinking about ways to kill Clint."

She frowned at him.

"He was right about my obliviousness, and I know no one can tell you your own feelings or reasons, so I'll leave that last bit up to you," he smiled, just barely. "You know, I called you after my date with Lana."

Lana. Okay. "Did you now?"

He affirmed with a hum. "I was so used to you always being there afterwards, and I was going to ask if you wanted to go watch Interstellar with me. But you didn't answer. And you know, you were right. I really didn't want to go on any of those dates, so I may have sabotaged them. Just slightly. But when everything went so well with Lana, I couldn't help but compare our times together instead."

"'Went so well' huh. Did she take you home?"

He looked a little bewildered. "Whu—no, no, nothing like that!" His cheeks were tinged red, and his confidence faltered. "Look, I know Clint can talk out his ass sometimes, but he can't tell me how I feel either. And I don't want to keep having you try and set me up on dates with girls, but I'll go on however many with them, even if I have wine dumped on me, or I get banned from bowling, as long as we get to spend time together afterwards, because I really like you and not in the friendship way, although I do like you as a friend too, but I really—"

She started laughing, and he stopped abruptly.

"You don't have to be so blatant," he said, clearly affronted.

She tried to get her laughter under control shook her head, walking over to him. She grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him, hard. Which shocked him. Hard.

"I'd say that was incredibly blatant too, but I'm also very confused."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Steve, I like you too. And not just in the friendship kind of way either," she smirked.

He was grinning like an idiot, hands on her waist. "Good, because friends shouldn't fantasize about their other friend while on a date with another woman."

She playfully swatted him on the soldier, her face a look of mock admonition. "Captain Rogers, how scandalous to think of a lady in such a way when they haven't even dated!"

He smirked, saying, "I think we're way past the first date, Romanoff."

"Then kiss me like it, Rogers."

And so he did.


End file.
